


The Prize Hardest Won

by sans_patronymic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Presents, Gen, Long-Suffering John, Watson's Woes WAdvent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-21 20:36:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13151574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: Watson rushes to get Holmes a belated Christmas gift.





	The Prize Hardest Won

It was a quarter to ten as the cold struggled to turn rain into snow. The railway station was teeming—weary people at the starts and ends of journeys, cab drivers calling out from the relative dryness of their boxes, a few brave vendors peddling their flowers or roasted nuts. A minute passed, a whistle blew. John Watson found himself still arguing with the conductor, who was yelling now to be heard over the fray.

 “There might be room in a second class compartment, sir.”

“Second class?”

“Of course, there’s always room in third class…”

“But,” stammered the doctor, “But this is a first class ticket.”

 “Yes, sir. I _am_ sorry, sir, but you see… we’re full up. If you like, sir, you can wait for the next train. But I’m afraid that won’t be until morning.”

Another minute, another whistle. From the engine car came an eager bark: Heyup! Izzy on, or izzy’uff?

“I’m on, I’m on,” Watson replied and handed over his first-class ticket for a sliver of a third-class pew.

It was the shave brush which caused all the trouble in the first place. If it had not been for the lousy shave brush, Watson decided, none of this would have happened.

He had forgotten the smell of a third-class carriage car on a rainy winter’s night. Wet wool, sliced fish, soured milk, soiled clothes, mince pies, and, worst of all, someone somewhere with too much rose oil in their hair. Watson held fast to the package in his lap and counted the miles until Paddington Station.

The shave brush was beautiful. Silver-tip badger, ivory handle, the weight of it just so in the hand. It reminded Watson of the shave brush his father had had once. How Holmes had ever come across such a shave brush was beyond him. And why Holmes had decided to bestow it upon him on Christmas Day was _quite_ beyond him.

They had never been in the habit of exchanging gifts on Christmas. Indeed, whenever the topic of Christmas or birthdays arose, Holmes made his feelings on gift-giving all too clear: it was a ridiculous habit, which rather than inspiring good will, seemed only to create anxiety in the giver and embarrassment in the receiver.

As the man beside him began messily shelling peanuts, Watson could not help but agree. Yet, in spite of all his humbugging, Holmes had given him the shave brush on Christmas morning, wrapped in a bit of tissue. And there was Watson, empty-handed. Even if he could not hope to understand the logic of that great mind, he could, Watson reasoned, at least reciprocate the gesture.

It had not been an easy task to find a gift for Sherlock Holmes. Two days of icy rain, muddy streets, and shops shut up for the holiday did not help matters either. Thinking back on it, Watson patted the parcel in his lap with pride. The prize hardest won is the most rewarding of all—or something like that. What was it Shakespeare had said? No, it wasn’t Shakespeare, it was Shelley. Shelley, or Keats.

The train came to a halt in Paddington Station with a lurch that threw Watson square into an old man who smelled as though he’d had a very merry Christmas, indeed, at the bottom of the bottle. He apologized, but that did not stop the man from offering his opinion on where the doctor ought to go next. He tucked the parcel under his arm and slithered his way from the carriage car 

Half past, now, and the cold had managed to transform the rain into a slippery mush on the paving stones. The hansom skidded around corners behind her blue roan so that Watson rejoiced as they rounded the final turn onto Baker Street. His parcel still safe beneath his arm, he took the seventeen icy steps carefully and, at last, was home.

“My dear Watson, you look positively wrung out,” declared Holmes. “Come sit by the fire, man, and warm your bones. What a miserable day to be running about.” 

It was certain from yesterday’s nightshirt and same hole-riddled socks that Holmes had not done any running about. Indeed, he did not appear to have moved from the languid position on the settee in which Watson had left him that morning. Watson peeled away rain-soaked layers and settled with a sigh before the fire. Grinning to himself, pleased as punch, he handed over the package.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

The string cut away, the brown paper torn and tossed into the fire. Holmes lifted the meerschaum pipe from the box. Watson delighted to see how carefully Holmes examined the amber stem, how curiously his brow furrowed at the bowl carved to resemble a bearded man. A sailor, Watson had concluded, by the look of his jaunty cap.

“What is this?” Holmes repeated, holding his present in both hands.

“It’s a pipe.”

“Yes, I can see that. But...” Holmes frowned at the bearded, meerschaum sailor. His eyes travelled to Watson’s muddy shoes, and then to Watson. “This… was your day’s errand, I take it?”

“It was,” answered Watson. Once more, he grinned to himself, for it was not everyday he could surprise his friend. He leaned back in his chair and, with more than a little pride, declared: “Merry Christmas, Holmes.”

“Christmas was Monday, Watson.”

“I know, I am not as thoughtful as I’d have liked, but I wanted to thank you—to pay you back for your gift to me.”

“My gift to you?”

“Why, that splendid shave brush, of course!”

The sitting room echoed with the heartiest, merriest laughter. Watson sat, perplexed, blinking away the minutes as Holmes was beside himself with giggles. Pride grew cold and turned to heavy embarrassment in Watson’s gut.

“My dear man,” Holmes said at last. “That shave brush is yours!”

“Mine? Whatever do you mean—I’ve never seen it before!”

“Then you’ve forgotten; it was nearly fifteen years ago. It was autumn of eighty-two, you’ll recall the Hickman affair—we had cause to go overnight to Winchester and we shared a valise. When we divided everything up again, it seems I came away with your shave brush by accident. I had meant to return it sooner, but… it _is_ a lovely brush.”

“My shave brush—you’ve had _my_ shave brush for fifteen years and you gave it back to me on Monday?”

“I did replace the bristles last May.”

“My own brush…”

“Thank you for this trinket, Watson. I think I shall try him out tonight.”

The clock on the mantle chimed the hour as Holmes tamped a fresh pinch of tobacco down the head of the meerschaum sailor. Together, they filled the air with dry smoke. Outside, the cold had won out; snowflakes drifted gently against the windowpanes. Watson sunk back into his arm chair, shaking his weary head in disbelief.


End file.
